


Blood Lust

by Dearest_Solitude



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Loss, Body Worship, F/M, Grooming, Katoptronophilia, Mirror Sex, Older Man/Younger Woman, Power Imbalance, Pseudo-Incest, Self-Esteem Issues, Vampire Bites, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:56:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27312247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dearest_Solitude/pseuds/Dearest_Solitude
Summary: “Do they hurt?” she asks him, still staring.His tongue runs along the back of his fangs, tastes the salt of her skin, and he wonders how he can explain that yes, they ache down to their roots because he can feel her pulse against them, he can smell her blood and her sweat and it is all so sweet and he is hungry.He settles on a lie. “Not at all, my dear.”
Relationships: Violet Baudelaire/Count Olaf
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	Blood Lust

_"Moonlight walking, I smell your softness_  
_Carnivorous and lusting to track you down among the pines_  
_I want you stuffed into my mouth_  
_Hold you down and tear you open, live inside you, love_  
_I'd never hurt you_  
_But I'll grind against your bones until our marrows mix_  
_I will eat you slowly."_

_-The Horror of Our Love, Ludo_

* * *

“Are you afraid?”

She is standing stock still. She is a pretty thing, Violet Baudelaire, (that name, the fact that she is who she is and she’s _here_ is almost pleasure enough) with skin like porcelain and eyes bluer than forget-me-nots. Her dark brown tresses curl down to her hips, and he resists the urge to reach out and stroke them, see if they’re as soft as they look. He has been taken with her from the moment she arrived on his doorstep with nothing but a small suitcase and the clothes on her back.

“You’re...” she breathes, voice musically sweet. He can’t wait to make her sing.

There is a chime from the clock in the hall, a grand, repeating sound that reverberates through the house. She flinches, unsettled by the disturbance to the otherwise silent night, eyes flicking across the tall glass windows that line the dining room wall. They are draped by parted curtains, deep red and velvet like most of the décor. Outside is pitch dark, and while his superior sight allows him view of the twisted, dead trees standing sentry, he imagines she can only see her own pale reflection.

He stands, chair grinding against the hardwood floor. At his full height, he is considerably taller than she, but she stands her ground, gaze flicking up to his face.

Well, his teeth, more likely.

He grins, elongated canines pressing into his stretched lower lip, and watches the way she swallows. The clench of her jaw followed by the tense of her throat is mouth watering. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” she says, though her small hands twist in the fabric of her dress. 

It is a white night dress, one he provided for her. Made of translucent silk, it falls down to her ankles, the lace at the bottom tickling the floor behind her. There is lace on its collar too, accentuating the plunging neckline. She has little by way of cleavage, but the unblemished skin from her collar bones down is absolutely delectable. The dress is slightly too big, but that makes her look all the more delicate. He could crush her in his fist with ease.

“No?” He reaches out and takes her hand. She lets him raise it up to his face. Though she does not wince, her lower lip quivers as he pressed her thumb against one tooth.

“No,” she restates, and surprise flickers in his chest when she raises her other hand as well, rubbing her other thumb across his other canine. “I’m not.”

The wideness of her eyes, which he had first assumed to be fear, he identifies now to be curiosity or even wonder. 

Letting go of her wrist, he reaches out and pulls her hair back over her shoulder (it _is_ as soft as he thought it would be) the backs of his knuckles brushing across her neck. She is warm, warm in a way he covets but can no longer even imagine, and it spreads up his arm as if fire.

“Do…” she pauses, her face a practiced calm and the words carefully arranging and rearranging themselves in her mind. Parted, her lips move silently as she decided how to proceed.

“What would you like to know?” Compelling her would not be difficult, but the way she leaves her hands where they are, letting his teeth scrape against the pads of her thumbs as he speaks makes him think he will not need to and that is far more satisfying. “Ask me anything, I wouldn’t dream of denying you.”

This reassures her. “Do they hurt?” she asks, still staring.

His tongue runs along the back of his fangs, tastes the salt of her skin, and he wonders how he can explain that _yes_ , they ache down to their roots because he can feel her pulse against them, he can smell her blood and her sweat and it is all so sweet and he is _hungry._

He settles on a lie. “Not at all, my dear.”

Her hands retreat, but hesitantly, as though he will disappear if she isn’t touching him. “How did this happen to you?”

Memories flash as vivid as the day they were made. He prefers to hold them in the base of his chest, simmering and fetid, but the question recalls them to the front of his mind where they sting violently.

His smile stays but it’s feral as he hisses, “A betrayal and a bite.” He doesn’t tell her it was her own mother’s fault, doesn’t mention that she is his retribution. “Perhaps the story is best left for another conversation.”

The candles on the table flicker, but she doesn’t notice, brows pulled together in thought. “Are you really…” She seems unsure again, swaying slightly on her feet before she finishes. “Dead?”

He leans against the polished table top with one hand, sweeping the other through his hair. “My heart doesn’t beat, so in the simplest sense, yes.”

This seems to get to her. She pulls out a chair and sits, crossing her arms over her chest. The long sleeves are pooled up around the crook of her arms and the neckline gapes as she leans forward. “How does it work?” she asks. “How do you… feed.” She says the last word hushed, like the term alone will invoke the process itself. He certainly intends to “feed,” as she put it, but he doubts anything she says could affect that one way or another. He made up his mind the moment he saw her.

“I think it’s rather self explanatory, no?” She shakes her head, so he shrugs. “First I find something with a pulse—usually a beautiful woman who has fought very hard for the honor—and then,” he pauses for dramatic effect, straightening up to his full height again. 

Violet scoots back in her chair, hands dropping to her lap. 

“Then I bite her.”

The room descends into silence once more as she mulls this over, looking a shade paler than before. In her lap, her hands worry at each other, her fidgeting adorable as it is annoying. 

“Violet,” he says, and there is a smile to his voice that gets her full attention. “Would you like me to show you?”

Her eyes grow wider, and her chest dips with a shallow gasp. “But you couldn’t possibly want—I’m- I’m not a beautiful woman,” she explains in a rush, sounding young as he’s ever heard her. Affection and amusement expand inside his chest and he drops to crouch in front of her. 

“Now why would you say a thing like that?” he asks, reaching up to stroke her cheek. He is teasing, so he is shocked when her eyes fill with tears. “Violet, has someone said something to you?” 

It is strange to be reminded that she has lived a life before him, that she is more than just a pawn in a game that spans generations. As time slips on without him, Olaf finds it easier and easier to forget that there are people living unrelated to him and those who would oppose him. These others so rarely affect him it is easier to forget they exist, irrelevant as they are. But now they've caused a problem. He is going to wound Violet, destroy her in ways from which she will never recover (he is owed this much). He assumed she was coming to him as pristine as a china plate, polished by grief, that he might smash her against the floor. He did not stop to consider the outside forces that might already started to cause cracks. 

Her head jerks in a nod, and he leans in closer, continuing to run his finger up and down her cheek as she squeezes her eyes shut to keep from crying. The other hand rests on her knee, and she is so hot it radiates through the layers of her dress. He longs to touch more of her, absorb the sun inside her chest. He’s so cold, always so cold.

“Who?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.

“It… at school. Just some of the boys,” she says, and she won’t look him in the eyes anymore. Her cheeks are apple red and just as round. He wonders how sweet she’ll taste when he takes a bite.

“What did they say?” 

She doesn’t try to stop him when his hands converge around her middle, resting patiently just above her hips. The loose fabric of her dress bunches, and her stomach muscles flex beneath his palms as she reaches up to rub her eyes.

“Nothing, really. They just said…it’s just because I like to invent things. I like learning, I like math. It’s not—I mean, traditionally women don’t—they said no one will ever want a girl who… uh, no one will want to...” her voice is thick and she keeps rubbing her eyes, over and over as if that will somehow hide her distress. “I’m sorry, it’s stupid,” she says, and he’s already shaking his head.

“Come here, dear girl.” He pulls her to him, lifting her from the chair with as little effort as if she really was just a tiny purple flower. Her arms slip around his neck tightly, and she hides her face against his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles again, and he considers making her tell him the names of each and every idiot who insulted her, and letting her watch him tear their throats out. It’s annoying, these insecurities they’ve given her. She is his to hurt or pamper or whatever else he chooses and she has been since the day she was born. It’s his right. She belongs to him.

  
  


He can still remember exactly how she looked when she arrived on his doorstep. She’d been wearing a black mourning gown and a matching jacket, something surprisingly conservative considering the amount of wealth he knew the young heiress to possess. He would have expected more lace or bead work or _something_ , but it was just black crepe, ruffled up around a bustle far smaller than the current fashions dictated. 

Her curled hair was piled atop her head, elaborately and perfectly coiffed. She stood with her arms close at her sides, taking up as little space as possible, face drawn closed. Still, when he swung open the door and her eyes met his, they brimmed with grief so raw it almost knocked him flat. 

“My name is Violet Baudelaire, and I…” she took a deep breath, and he noticed she was holding a small piece of paper in one slender, gloved hand. “I…didn’t know where else to go.”

There was a moment of stunned suspension in which Olaf could not move, overwhelmed by the sweet smell of her and the sound of her heartbeat racing in her chest. White flashed behind his eyes, crashing forward through his mind as if to topple him. He caught himself on the door frame, grip tight enough to splinter the wood, and covered it with a sweeping bow. 

“Count Olaf,” he said and it was a challenge to keep from grinning at her, elated as he was. “It is a pleasure to meet you.” He reached for her hand and she let him draw it to his lips. The beat of her pulse tantalized him and his head swam. “Please, come in. I suspect we have much to talk about.”

She stepped through the threshold of the doorway tentatively, peering around at the richly decorated interior, and he marveled. She looked so much like her mother, the same moonlit beauty, the unattainable Artemis. Violet carried herself in a way far more genteel than her mother ever had though, pristinely ladylike. In another life she would have made someone a perfect wife.

She noticed him watching and offered a tight lipped smile. With the sadness in her eyes, it appeared pained.

“I’m sorry for showing up unannounced but…” She squeezed the paper in her hand, though not enough to crease it.

Olaf shut the door. The sound echoed through the cold entry room. 

“Nonsense. Family is always welcome.”

Her smile faltered. She swallowed. The tendon on her throat bobbed and Olaf flexed his hand to keep from grabbing her.

“Family…” she repeated, looking dazed. Her brow furrowed and she mouthed the word again, before she remembered herself and straightened up. She held the piece of paper out towards him and he realized it was a photograph. 

He remembered when it was taken. Beatrice had refused to sit still, muttering venomous jokes under her breath about the photographer who had, admittedly, bared a striking resemblance to certain bird of prey. In the photograph she was sitting straight, smiling serenely at the camera and Olaf — he’d hated that stupid, pompous outfit — was bent forward, face cracked in a grin, blurry and out of focus. 

He flipped it over in his hand. In a loopy, familiar scrawl was written “ _B. and O. 1853. Day with the vulture._ ” Underneath that was his address. It was smaller, neater, just different enough to give him pause. He imagined it was written years later, under the cover of night, copied off some letter she surely burned afterwards.

“My mother kept it in her jewelry box. She’d take it out and look at it sometimes, when she thought no one was around. She didn’t talk about her family, so I never realized…”

The ice cold shock of hatred was enough to floor him. It had to be hatred, always hatred, or else it might be grief and that he would not bear. So he embraced his furry, that Beatrice Baudelaire would have a keepsake to remember him by (some more poison darts or even a stake would have been smarter, Baudelaire, you knew better!) and he handed the photo back to Violet.

“She was my cousin,” he said, and Violet’s eyes widened. They were rimmed in darkness the color of a bruise, and he wondered when the last time she slept was. 

When he’d been orphaned, left for dead, he’d had nightmares every night for months. He imagined his eyes had looked a similar way, except far, far more angry.

“She never mentioned any cousins,” Violet muttered, and for a second he saw a glimpse of Bertrand in her, in the gears turning in her head as she added another piece to her mother’s puzzle.

“No, she wouldn’t have. We… grew apart. But as children we were practically inseparable. She was the closest thing I had to a sister. We lived together, played together. Even went to school together, for a time. We’re not related by blood—well, maybe somewhere, distantly—but we were family through marriage.”

Violet looked so sad and serious all at once, he almost wants to take it back, spare her the pain of dishonoring her dearly departed mother. That thought was quickly smothered. Beatrice would have no sympathy from him. 

“She never mentioned any of this,” Violet said, voice barely above a whisper. “I never knew… and now…” She pressed her eyes closed, inhaling deeply through her nose to keep herself calm. When she could, she said, “That makes us… first cousins once removed, doesn’t it?” She thought, then nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

He snorted. “Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, does it?”

She smiled, slightly more genuine than before. “Then what would you prefer I call you, First Cousin Olaf Once Removed?”

She was teasing and he thought for the first time (but certainly not the last) that they were going to have so much fun together.

“Count Olaf will do,” he answered immediately. Then he paused and looked her over, standing so innocently before him. “Or ‘Uncle,’ if that suits you better.” Good old Bertie would be rolling in his grave. The idea that Olaf might be any sort of family to his children would have made the man furious. Too bad one tended to lose one’s say in such things when one found themselves dead. 

Except, Olaf thought, except…

Violet gave him that same, sad smile again. “Alright. Uncle Olaf it is.” The name was said softly, like a foreign word she wasn't quite sure how to pronounce. She shifted in place, the thin wooden floorboards creaking below her. “I truly don’t mean to be rude, but- would it be possible for us to sit somewhere? It has been a very long journey and I’m afraid I have much more to talk to you about.”

He had her settled in one of the many guest rooms. She could not know, but shared a back wall with his own, so that he could keep an ear out for her during her stay. She had nothing with her but a single leather suitcase, so it did not take long to move in.

They reconvened in the tea room. 

It belonged to his mother once, her pride and joy. Everything matched: the settee, the armchairs, the carpet, the curtains. All the wood was the same as well, an ugly almost-grey color, from the chairs to the decorative china cabinet to the semi-grand piano in the far corner. The theme was a sort of swampy green and gold, which perhaps wouldn’t have been terrible in moderation, but nothing about the room was moderate. It was garish, but Olaf never cared enough to change it.

“Thank you,” Violet said, ever gracious as she lifted the tea cup. Her hand trembled almost imperceptibly, and Olaf wondered once again when the last time she slept was. 

He kept a few people around. They kept the house livable and they fed him when he needed. He fed them too, just a little drop of his blood every so often, to keep them compliant and addicted and never asking for real pay. It was a good system, aside from their jealous hatred of outsiders, especially ones as pretty as Violet.

“How old are you, Violet?” He asked, leaning forward in his chair. He should have been able to remember, the card with the announcement floating blurry in his mind, but he could not. “Have you debuted yet?” 

She swallowed and paused, her nose scrunching just slightly.

“Is something wrong?” 

She was quick to shake her head, “No, no. The tea is just,” she paused, determined not to be impolite. “It’s very strong.”

He laughed. “I don’t drink much tea, so they don’t often have to prepare it. Please, add some sugar, if you like.”

She smiled her thanks but set the teacup down on its saucer and clasped her hands on her lap. She had taken off her coat, though the dress underneath was just as modest, with a high neck, and simple ruffles down the front of her bodice. It was a shame she couldn’t wear color; the black simply swallowed her.

“I’m sixteen,” she said, straightening. “I was due to debut this season, but… for obvious reasons, no longer.” She left the photograph in her room, he noticed, and her hands twitched for something to hold on to. “I am the eldest of three. My brother, Klaus, is continuing his education. He resides on the campus, with the rest of the boys. It’s a good boarding school.” Something bitter tainted her voice, something other than the tea, but Olaf didn’t know what. “Sunny, my younger sister, is staying with her nurse for the time being. Until I have found a more permanent residence, and she has grown a little older, at which point she will be returned to my care.” 

She paused. Her heart was racing, taunting him, but he sat still in his seat. He had played many roles in his life, but never had the attentive host been harder.

“And that brings me here.” She took a deep breath. “I can work.” The words came out rushed and practiced. “I don’t have much experience with cooking or cleaning, but I am a fast learner. I’m good at fixing things too, and I do have some education. If you needed help with- with finances, I could do it! I’m sorry, but please! I have no place left to go!”

Olaf didn’t realize his nails had dug into the wooden arms of the chair until he flexed his hands, loosening his grip. He could not believe what he was hearing. It was just too much! Not even in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined pretty little Violet Baudelaire _begging_ to live with him. 

He laughed, delighted. “Violet, please, slow down! You are welcome in my home. You may stay here as long as you need.”

She opened her mouth, then froze as his words sank in. Her pleading expression melted away. 

“You… really? You mean it? You’ll let me stay?” She was up out of her seat before he could utter another word, wrapping her arms around his neck, crying, “Thank you, thank you, _thank you,_ Uncle!” 

She was oblivious to the way he froze, her scent washing over him, tart and sweet and satisfying. She was his (his, his, only his!) and again he had to stop himself from devouring her right there. 

A lesser man would not have been able to resist such temptation, but Olaf patted her back before pushing her gently towards her seat.

“I must ask,” he said when she was sitting, beaming with a gratefulness he didn't think he had ever had directed towards him before. “Why do you need a place to stay? Surely your parents left you money to care for yourself? And even if not, do you not have other relatives? Family friends you are close with?”

Her smile dimmed. “The inheritance goes to Klaus, but the bank is managing it until he comes of age,” she explained. “If it was up to us, he would simply pay for me and Sunny to live nearby, but the bank decided it wasn’t...proper for me to live alone so they will not fund that expense. As for friends… Klaus and Sunny are easy enough to take care of. He’s a boy, he goes to a well respected school, and who doesn’t love a baby?” 

There it was, that bitterness from before.

“And you?” He prompted, wildly curious and almost offended. How could anyone say no to such a pretty girl?

“I am not…” she paused, worrying her bottom lip. “Before my parents passing, I went to school with my brother. My parents were friends with many of the professors, so even though it is a boys school, I got dispensation to attend several classes. I did well in them. People find that strange.” She paused again, fidgeting in her seat. “I am also about the age to debut. I come with a fantastic dowry, but whatever family would take me would have to pay many upfront costs for my dresses and shoes and coats.” She looked at him, suddenly angry. “I don’t need any of that—just a place to stay was all—but everyone had an excuse!” She was practically vibrating, radiating a grief almost tangible. “My parents just died and no one would help me!”

He thought for a moment that she might burst into tears, but she composed herself with a deep breath.

“I don’t need anything,” she said, quiet once more. “Just a place to stay. Just until I… figure out what to do next.”

As if he’d ever let her leave him now. “My dear, you may stay here as long as you desire. When the time comes, I would be happy to house your sister as well.” He reached out and took her hand in his. The black silk glove was soft against his palm, and he rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “As I said, family is always welcome.”

—

She looks so small on his bed. She is so grown up in her black dresses, reminds him so much of her mother, it’s easy to forget just how young she is. But the bed seems to engulf her as she sits with crossed ankles, rubbing at her eyes while her bottom lip trembles. Her curls are long enough that the ends crumple if a heap on the blanket behind her. The bedskirt brushes against her calves as she sits, feet not quite touching the ground. 

“Violet,” he says, hoping to distract her. She sniffles and glances up at him with wet eyes and his body thrums. 

“Uncle…” She takes a deep breath. “You’re- You’re so kind to me, but…”

“What?” he all but snaps. He will not allow her to deny him now, not after he’s seen her looking so delectable in that perfect white nightgown. _Not perfect for long,_ he thinks, eyes lingering on the lace and ribbon that rest over the swell of her modest breasts.

“I just, I don’t…” She takes another breath, gathering herself. He is impressed by how quickly her face is schooled into stillness, a mask of pleasant femininity, though the red spots on her cheeks remain. “As curious as I am to- to see how this goes, I’m sure… _feeding_ must be a- a very intimate ritual, so by no means should you feel obligated— Just because I’m curious doesn’t mean you should have to—”

“Violet,” he says with a laugh, his body relaxing now as he ambles over to her. His fangs glimmer in the warm light of the lamps on the wall as he takes her hand in his, rubbing soft circles with his thumb into her wrist. “Please. There’s no ‘obligation.’ I am perfectly happy to share this uh,” he smirks, and her eyes meet his for a second before dropping quickly to her lap. “‘Very intimate ritual’ with you.”

“Will it hurt?” she asks as he strips off his jacket. He tosses it over the back of a nearby chair. The gums above his fangs throb. He’s been waiting so long for this.

“Yes,” he says, and is impressed that she accepts the answer with a nod. “But you’ll love it.”

“Do you have to feed?” She fumbles over the last word, like she doesn’t want to offend him.

He considers his answer carefully as he unbuttons his vest. “I suppose not. When I don’t feed for a long time, I become lethargic and… irritable. If it goes on for too long I grow ravenous. At that point I’d attack any living person I came across.”

Her eyes go wide and flicker about the room as she thinks. “Would you kill them?”

He’s honest. Why not? “Yes.”

She digests this. “And what if you couldn’t still? Would it kill you?”

“No. But it would be torture. I’d lose my mind.” He divests the vest completely, tossing it over the jacket.

“But what if—”

He sweeps forward, cupping her face in his hands, “Violet. Enough.”

She stares at him, lips parted, and nods. “I’m sorry. I’m just- nervous. It’s not everyday a girl finds out vampires exist.”

He chuckles. “Certainly not.” Standing back, he regards her for a moment, considering whether or not he should ask her to take her dress off. To scare her now after she’s been so good would be a shame, and he prefers a willing participant. They taste better that way. He won’t mind seeing her all blood soaked either.

“Open your mouth,” he tells her instead. She does so, his dutiful girl, parting her lips with no more than a questioning glance. He takes advantage before she has the chance to change her mind, leaning down to kiss her, his tongue sliding against hers. His hands catch her head, tangling in her hair as he holds her in place, even as she tries to pull away. Where his skin touches hers, it grows warm enough he can pretend he isn’t what he is. Feeling is addictive, and who is he to deny himself?

When he lets her go, she ducks away, clapping a hand over her mouth.

“What—why—Uncle?”

“Don’t worry,” he tells her smoothly. “It’s simply preliminary. My spit has… certain properties. From what I understand, it makes things more pleasant.”

Her cheeks are still red and her brows still furrowed but his explanation placates her. “Do you always do that first?”

“No.” The saliva is useful for keeping his food calm and pliant. It’s slower when applied directly to the wound but it works, so he rarely feels the need to do anything but dig in. His prey is usually just a means to an end. Something to kill. He isn’t going to kill Violet, though. No, his plans for her extend far beyond one quick meal.

“Um…” she’s glancing around the room, pupils blown wide. “Everything’s- sparkling. Is that… normal? It’s beautiful, I just— Is it supposed to… is…” She’s distracted, taking in her newly glittering surroundings. Her voice is so innocent, it sends arousal spinning like pinwheels through his stomach. 

He sits beside her on the bed and she faces him, looking a little overwhelmed. Smiling, he takes her left hand in his right one, pulling her arm out away from her. He twists gently until her palm faces upward, and pushes her sleeve down to her elbow. The shadows cast by the lamp across her face accent her softness. She watches him with iris black as ink, curls spilling over one shoulder.

He licks his lips before pressing them against her wrist in a kiss. The beat of her pulse is hypnotizing, and time slows. He can hear the thump of her heart, the hitch in her breath, the sound of her swallowing. Warmth travels out from where his lips touch her.

He bites down. Blood bursts hot and metallic across his tongue, burning down his throat to boil in his pulsing stomach. Feral satisfaction pumps through him and he struggles not to jerk forward and rip her whole arm open. An image flashes through his head, of her torn open from neck to cunt, heart squirting blood like a morbid fountain in the middle of the bed. He wants to make a mess of her tender body, bury his teeth into her beating heart while she still watches, punish her for things that aren’t her fault. 

Violet hisses through her teeth, tensing, but doesn’t pull away. In a herculean display of strength, Olaf opens his mouth and lowers her arm. His tongue flicks across his lips. A stream of blood rolls down Violet’s wrist and begins to drip onto her skirt.

“That’s it?” she whispers, staring at the puncture wounds, glimmering like jewels in the limited light.

She’s so naive it’s endearing. 

“Oh _no,_ my dear.” The willpower it takes for Olaf to reach forward and take her other hand without lunging for her jugular leaves his body shaking. “We’ve only just begun.”

Time stands still. He goes slowly, decorating her pale skin with ruby crescents and savoring each one. He steals kisses from time to time too, and her eyes are soon glassy, lips perpetually parted as she watches him drink sweet heat from her veins. 

He bit her other wrist first. Afterwards, she held her hands out beside her, palms up, almost a gesture of welcome. The pose reminds him of the alleged virgin from those stained glass windows the outside of the church he can no longer enter. 

He bit her neck next. Blood already dripped from her wrists, sliding by gravity from the upturned wounds to encircle her wrists in delicate bracelets and fall to the bed. Her neck was not quite so reserved. Blood streamed from the wound, dripping down his chin and her collar bone and blooming across the decadent lace around her bust. 

“Oh no,” she mumbled, brushing her fingers across the stain. His grip in her hair tightened. “I’m making such a mess.” But nonetheless, she tilted her head to the side so he could continue to drink unhindered, letting out a breath suspiciously like a moan as he sucked hard on the spot, his hands wrapping around her waist to keep her in place.

He bites the other side of her neck too, and paws at her dress until the collar comes low enough for him to bite in the soft spots beneath her collarbones. Only then does she ask, in a tentative, warbling voice, “Uncle, how much do you need to drink?”

He glances up at her and pulls away, licking his lips again. He’s perfectly full now, but he isn’t finished with her yet. If he’d just been interested in a warm meal, he wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble. 

“You look beautiful like this,” he tells her. The blood loss suits her, sick as it is. She looks luminous, pale as a corpse aside from two bright spots of blush on the centers of her cheeks. Her face stands out against her wild hair, which appears black in the dim light. The blood too, the proof of his conquest smeared and dripping across her skin, is art. 

Her eyes flick down, and she begins to twist her hands again. “You don’t have to say such things,” she grumbles.

Olaf sighs, and reaches out to her, rubbing his thumb across one of her neck wounds. She winces and he strokes the thumb across her lips, leaving a smear of bloody red behind like rouge. Her tongue flicks out, perhaps instinctually, to wipe some away. She swallows. A new bead of blood rolls down her neck. Olaf’s cock throbs. 

“However shall I convince my dear girl of how beautiful she is?” Olaf asks no one in particular as he glances around the room. This self esteem issue of hers is a good opportunity, he’s decided. He’s going to make her adore herself, and she’ll adore him for it, too. 

Violet crosses her arms. Even in her fatigued, inebriated state, she knew her own mind as well as ever. “I have no use for vane compliments. In fact, I should prefer that you refrain from making them.”

She says it all grownup-like, like it’s final. Olaf smiles in amusement and affection and twirls a strand of her hair between his fingers. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you that lying is wrong? If you’d really have no use for them then why did I have a weeping girl in my dining room not so long ago.” She sniffs and he leans closer. The whole room is heavy with the tangy smell of her blood. “My poor Violet is so starved for compliments she bursts into tears when she hears one.”

“I do not—”

“Every girl wants to hear that she’s pretty, though few actually deserve it.” He watches her lips pinch, expression seeming to fold in on itself as she seals herself away. “But you, Violet, most certainly do.”

—

Violet Baudelaire is nothing if not practical. Though her mother always wore intricate gowns of the newest fashion, Violet preferred function over form. She can excuse frills and decorations as they make for a fantastic way to disguise extra pockets and tools and other things one might need to carry on their person, but over all she prefers her dresses as plain and unassuming as possible. Well, really she prefers trousers. She used to wear them before… well, _before,_ and while she has nothing against skirts, trousers are much easier to maneuver an inventing studio in.

Inventing things and wearing trousers in one’s free time, Violet had found, was not conducive to making friends. It wasn’t that she didn’t try. She’d been invited by some girl’s her age to join an embroidery circle. It had been...nice. She had no particular propensity for the art, but she enjoyed chatting with the other girls and she’d thought they enjoyed her there as well until she arrived late one week and overheard a conversation she most certainly had not been meant to. 

“She’s just so strange! I have nothing against women getting an education but she’s so…”

“And did you see her dress? I’m certain her family has enough money to afford something a little more than that!”

“She _is_ awfully plain.”

Violet decided not to join them again. 

When she started attending lectures she had hoped maybe she could befriend some of the boys, seeing as they’d have similar interests. That too had gone quickly awry. Most of them didn’t even pretend to be kind to her face, muttering nasty names and sticking out their legs to trip her, or yanking on her skirt as she passed them. The few who didn’t seem to mind her presence were too cowed by the others to talk to her, so she kept to herself.

She grew not to expect compliments or any sort of positive interaction, really. Her family loved her, and that was more than some had. Everyone was right, anyways. She was strange and plain. And most days she was able to convince herself that she didn’t mind it.

“Poor Violet,” Olaf sighs. He stands up, crossing the room to do- something. Violet watches the lamp on the wall, listening to the sound of his shoes against the carpet. The light sends sparkles spiraling like fairy dust across everything it touches. The saliva makes everything strange, softening hard edges, saturating colors, distracting her. Violet looks down at her wrists and touches one of the bites with her thumb, drawing swirls of red up her forearm. Much like when Olaf had touched her (with his hands _and_ with his mouth) her skin buzzes. 

“Come here, will you?”

The saliva— or maybe the blood loss— mellows her. It feels good. She’s felt no peace since her parents died. Even in her dreams she is plagued by burning stares and burning houses. She likes the relaxed, emptiness she has been gifted.

Olaf is sitting in a comfortable armchair which he has positioned in front of a large, standing mirror. The intricate frame matches the rest of the expensive furniture in the room, dark wood and expertly crafted. 

“Sit,” he commands, patting his thigh, and she doesn’t think twice. After she is settled does he use his feet to scoot the chair up to the mirror. She looks up at their reflection and, head swimming with terror, screams.

Only she has appeared in the mirror, white faced and blood smeared, floating above the indented chair cushion like some horrible spectre. Cold rushes through her, heart pounding against the inside of her chest as she scrambles, twisting to clutch at Olaf and assure herself he is still beneath her.

He laughs, a cackle like a raven’s cry from deep within his empty chest, as she looks back and forth between him and the reflection, frightened as a child.

“Violet— Violet dear, don’t worry” he laughs still, reaching up to stroke her cheek. In the mirror, she sees a red smudge left behind by his touch. “Don’t worry. I’m here. Vampires won’t show up in reflections. Something about the silver doesn’t agree with us.”

She nods, still clutching him, and stares at her lone self in the mirror. She dreads to think what anyone would say if they saw her now. Her hair is mussed and wild, her cheeks glowing against the otherwise starkness of her skin. Her nightdress slumps low over one shoulder, stained red where her blood has blossomed across the fabric. Her eyelids are heavy, and her lips part as she breathes. She imagines they’d think her quite whorish.

“You see? Beautiful.” Olaf says, and she feels his knuckles drag against her neck, as in the mirror her hair shifts off her shoulder as if by magic. 

Leaning forward, she examines her face. Large, too big eyes stare back at her from above a too flat nose and pillowy lips. She wouldn’t call herself ugly, but she certainly doesn’t know what Olaf is talking about.

She frowns and tells him so.

“Well, if you can’t see your beauty, my dear, let me describe it for you.” He scoots the chair closer, until her skirt brushes up against the glass. It is still disorienting to feel him beneath her yet see herself alone. She doesn’t much like being alone.

He tucks her hair out of her face. “I will start with your face, as round and as bright as the moon.” He’s mentioned he enjoys acting, but she cannot understand why he’s putting on such a performance or what it has to do with his feeding. Maybe vain women taste better.

“Is this necessary?” she interrupts. “If you’ve finished with my blood, I actually have some more questions.” 

His chest falls behind her as he sighs. She wonders if he needs to breathe at all or if that too is some sort of act, and adds it to the list of things she plans to ask.

“Violet, Violet, Violet. I am not ‘finished with your blood’ and I am not finished with you. Now listen!” He clears his throat and she stares hard at herself, fighting the urge to squirm as he begins to comb through her hair with his fingers. “Your face— the moon. Your eyes are as big and deep as oceans. Your nose is small as a button, and your lips are so… so pouty and pink and simply adorable. You’re like a little china doll.”

There is a long creak from somewhere in the old house but Violet doesn’t hear it. Her chest boils with emotions so tumultuous her ears burn. She wants to yell at him—Is he trying to humiliate her?— but there is an uncomfortable lump clogging the back of her throat that she can’t seem to swallow. She stares at her hands, which she’s folded in her lap, unsure why she is so ashamed. 

“And your hair! As dark as night and as soft as silk. And so long, Violet, it’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.” He twists the hair together and lays it over her shoulder. His lips brush the back of her neck. Violet braces herself for another bite but is surprised when he just keeps pressing his lips against her skin, over and over, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

When he reaches the wound at the junction between her shoulder and neck, he licks it long and slow, tongue circling over the holes his teeth left behind. It stings and she winces, jerking away before she can help herself. He catches her arm and holds her in place, continuing to lave the bloody wound. The attention hurts until a flicker of something ignites in Violet’s belly and while the pain continues her instinct is to lean into it this time instead of pulling away. 

She stiffens, frozen in place, staring at her red face in the mirror. Her own wide eyes stare back. Olaf is right. They are the color of the ocean, a deep, murky blue with flecks of green and pupils so big they seem to soak the light right out of her gaze.

He hums, hands sliding down her arms, thumb pressing into the soft skin of her forearm. His hands come to rest atop hers, long and cold to the touch.

“Your hands are so delicate, so clever,” he says, weaving his fingers through hers. “You told me about so many inventions you’ve made with these beautiful hands.” He lifts one hand with his own, and brings her wrist up to kiss. Those, her earliest wounds, have formed tentative scabs that still glimmer in the light. She wishes he’d bite her again, so that she can feel that sweet rush it brings. If his mouth is busy, he’ll also have to stop saying things that make her stomach spin.

“Your feet, so small and dainty.” He drops holds onto her hands still, tugging at her arms as he uses them to gesture towards the mirror. “And your legs are long and slender.” His breath brushes over her neck again and she represses a shiver, swallowing thickly. Her cheeks are hot with blush.

Olaf sets her hands back atop his thigh and Violet, tense as she is, fights not to grab him again. His hands settle around her waist, spanning across the thin fabric, and he slides them upwards slowly. He’s kissing her neck again and she wants so badly to melt into the feeling but can’t. This is because he’s hungry, a side effect. Bloodlust of a different sort. None of this is about her, it can’t be. It simply wouldn’t make sense. She’s just convenient. 

That thought—though it leaves a bitter taste on the back of her tongue—is what she clings to as his hands halt for a moment around her ribcage. The thought becomes a little harder to hold, though, as in a swift movement his hands come up to cover her breasts, squeezing softly through the plumage of layered lace that ruffles down from the low slumped collar.

“Your breasts,” he says in a growl that makes heat burn between her legs like she has never felt before. “Fit perfectly in my hands.”

Violet doesn’t dare breath, just watches the fabric of her reflection’s dress crumple and stretch across her chest. That pleasant buzzing, like little lighting in her veins, grows until her fingers and toes are numb with it. She is weightless and heavy all at once, like she’s been dropped in freezing water, floating in a timeless place where her skin burns and her ears ring and nothing’s real except his hands on her.

Her Uncle Olaf is an attractive man, she’s thought so since she saw him, so proud and self-possessed. He talks like he owns the world, and silly infatuation aside, the moment he agreed to let her stay with him when everyone else had turned her away she’d know she’d be loyal to him until the day she died. The flutter in her chest when he’d look at her with pale, glimmering eyes was not something she ever planned to act upon. She was barely a woman yet, and he was...well, _him._ What could she possibly offer? Having him as her sort-of-uncle was more than enough. 

After her parents died, Violet wasn’t sure she’d ever feel anything again. Yet, when she talks, he listens. More than that, he understands. She’ll never tell him so, but the first thing she felt when he revealed his state of being was not fear, but relief. He can’t die and leave her if he’s already dead.

Olaf sinks his teeth into her neck again and with a gasp, everything snaps back into place. 

“U-Uncle!” she moans, and his tongue laps at the fresh blood, leaving her neck stinging and tingly like before, his hands still massaging her breasts. Blood moves in vacillating patterns across her reflection’s neck, and Violet doesn’t look away as Olaf tugs at the tiny buttons hidden beneath the ruffles of the neckline, popping them open one by one until the top of the gown slides down to rest in the crooks of her arms. 

The lights glimmer against the mirror and it’s frame, sparkling softly as the two regard Violet’s half naked reflection. Olaf’s hot breath brushes the shell of her ear and she is struck for a moment, as if watching herself through a dream or someone else's eyes (Or, perhaps, through the eyes of the reflection in front of her, staring back at her own real body) that her uncle is telling the truth. The bloody undressed young woman with the wild hair and skin smooth and seashell pink looks quite enticing, like a wild animal or some untamed thing.

Olaf presses a finger to her lips, and she sees a pink flash of tongue before it disappears into the black empty ‘O’ of her mouth. She tastes metallic remnant and sucks until his other hand brushes her bare breast and the electricity makes her gasp. 

He takes that as an invitation, and begins to massage her breasts as he had been before. His hands are cold and rough, but he touches her so purposefully it doesn’t matter.

As she watches her nipples twist and the indents in her skin where his fingers should be. The visual is too strange, too disembodied, so she closes her eyes and focuses on the sensation of his hands, trying to keep her breathing even.

“So soft and pink. And so responsive, aren’t you, Violet?”

The murmuration of colors behind her eyelids does not distract Violet from his hands nor his voice nor the growing want in the pit of her stomach.

“Uncle,” she begins—because maybe he really is just drunk on blood and she can’t bear it if he regrets her tomorrow— “you don’t have to do this.”

_Don’t stop. Please don’t stop touching me._

“Ah!” She yelps, eyes flying open as he pinches her nipples hard enough it hurts.

“You think I don’t know what I’m doing,” he accuses. She turns to check his expression, and her shoulders relax when she finds it to be closer to petulant amusement than anger. In fact, he stares at her with a gleam in his eye as though she is a particularly difficult riddle he’s just about to solve. “But, my clever, beautiful, courteous Violet, I know exactly what I'm doing and I doubt God himself could stop me from going through with it.”

Her worry quiets as he grins down at her, and she is calm, taken once again by his beautiful teeth, by their length and sharpness, and for the first time that night her head does not fill with scientific wonderings and instead she only wishes he’d bite her once more. The thought is distantly surprising, though it somehow makes all the sense in the world.

Olaf continues to touch her, telling her how beautiful, how supple, how lovely she is as he plays with her breasts until they grow sore. The compliments don’t stop as his hands slide down, grasping the nightgown and tugging it down, disrobing her completely.

The idea of stopping him does not cross her mind. She wants him to see her. Or rather, she wants to be _seen._ Not as a strange, plain girl who likes books and inventing and who no one wants, but as a young woman, someone desirable and—

“Beautiful. Look at you, Violet. You’re so beautiful.”

She is luminous, skin glowing as she floats above the murky red backdrop, She reaches up, touches her lips and the blood dried on her cheek.

Olaf’s fingers creep up her thighs, her skin dimpling beneath the touch. He talks as he discovers her, murmuring praise, how sweet, how pale, how rare she looks. The adrenaline of it leaves her shaking, but she manages to still herself as he slides a finger through the wetness between her legs.

“So soft and warm,” he hums.

And when she moans, high and heady, and he praises her for that too.

“I’m not—” She remembers through her hazy mind that there is something else she must say, but he pushes a finger inside her and she grabs at the chair, eyes flying wide. She’s so hot she’s cold, every nerve in her body burning. “I’m not—” How can she say it? She has to. “—untouched.” 

Olaf pauses for a second, and her heart hammers wildly. He’s going to throw her down on the floor and leave, she knows it!

Instead he laughs, continuing to curl his finger inside her until she whines, head pressing back against his shoulder. “Bet he never touched you like this, though.”

That is true, no one has ever made her feel like this before, made her whole body quiver with a thousand sparks beneath her skin. There had been a boy once, at school, who had been nicer to her than most of the others and they’d both been curious and young and the downstairs science lab at the end of the hallway past the storage closet was conveniently hidden away and rarely ever used. The boy had been fine— it didn’t hurt or anything— but Olaf was right. It was nothing like this.

When he frees himself from the confines of his trousers, she’s so electric with excitement she could be glowing. He’s nothing like that boy in the classroom, much bigger and, in her opinion, prettier. Olaf laughs when she says this, but she doesn’t miss the way his breath hitches as she strokes her hands up the length of him, rubbing her thumb over the soft blushing head.

“Do you want it inside you?” he asks, and of course the answer is yes, _Uncle, yes!_

He lifts her by the hips as easy as anything, and she is hypnotized by the way she stretches in the mirror, pink as a parting rose petals and slick with arousal. It’s obscene and she can’t look away, stares as her lone self being fucked around nothing.

It hurts in a good way. She feels filled up and warm enough she’s melting. Olaf bites her again, a new spot on her neck, and a bead of blood he doesn’t catch runs down between her breasts, all the way to her navel. 

He picks an excruciatingly slow pace, lifting her with only one hand, and letting gravity pull her back down around him. The knowledge that he could shatter her hip in an instant if he wanted or tear out her throat with his teeth and lap the blood from her dying face is more erotic than she could have possibly imagined. Her climax hits hard, and she screams, back arching like a bow. It is as if she’s burning alive, whole body shattering deliciously, fragmenting like kaleidoscope glass. 

When his mouth leaves her neck she slips, too weak to hold herself up. Her reflection catches her, palm against palm, fingers almost interlacing. The glass is cool against her feverish skin. She stares into her reflection, and in a moment of buzzing dissociation, does not recognize herself.

The girl’s hair is raven, haloed in red from the sparkling lamp light of the far wall. Her face is paper white, eyes rimmed in dark, glassy and half-lidded. Her full lips are pale as the rest of her, almost lavender in shadow. Rivulets of blood drip over the soft slopes of her breasts from the bites are her neck and collarbones. The wounds of her wrists have opened again, dripping down on her thighs and the white night gown piled between her feet. Her cunt is stretched open, pink and grotesque beneath a thatch of dark curls.

The mirror fogs as she breathes in short puffs, enamored with the woman before her. She can’t break her eyes away, entranced by the way her muscles clench and relax, shiny and slick. The sight is so beautiful she’s dizzy. 

“Uncle…” she murmurs, though she isn’t quite sure what she means to say. He seems to understand though, and his hand gently grips the base of her skill, pushing her forward until her lips meet her reflection’s.

The kiss is euphoric, brimming with unadulterated joy. She understands- _she understands-_

Her eyes flutter shut and she’s sliding forward, folded in half on Olaf’s lap with him still deep inside her. 

—

He had been wondering how long she’d last. Far longer than he’d expected, given the amount of blood he’d drunk and the amount still dripping down her body. 

When she called him “Uncle” in that sweet little voice of hers and kissed herself looking drunk on sex and even then half dead, she’d pushed him over the edge. He came as she slumped forward, face squeaking against the glass. Only after his cock had finished spasming inside her did he lift her into his arms and carry her over to the bed. The coverlet was a lot of less blood stained than he’d thought it would be, but he consoled himself with the fact that there would be plenty more opportunities to make a mess of it in the future.

He takes Violet’s pulse, fingers smearing the tacky blood along her neck. Sure enough, she is still alive. He doesn't bother dressing her—the night gown is stained past salvage and there isn’t anything convenient around, though he can’t say he looked very hard. She really does look beautiful too, the blood on her skin the most color he’s ever seen her dressed in. He tucks her beneath the blankets, considering first, for a moment, fucking her again. She isn’t awake, so how could she mind? He doesn’t in the end because he knows when she wakes up he can fuck her as much as he wants with her full consent and that makes it so much sweeter.

He replays the night in his head, mind sticking particularly on the way Violet, with her heavy eyelashes almost obstructing her blown out pupils from his view, whimpered and leaned forward to kiss her own reflection—his blood burns and he bites the palm of his hand to keep from doing anything rash. She’s so perfect he can hardly stand it. 

If people’s spirits can linger after death—and why not? Blood sucking undead exist, he can be open to other supernaturals as well—he hopes Beatrice and her pathetic husband watched him defile their daughter. He hopes they cursed and raged from beyond the grave. He hopes their inability to stop him hurt them half as much as their betrayal hurt him.

Olaf has no use for sleep, so he lays beside the prone girl, watching her with unveiled delight. He had planned on keeping her around as a ward, locked up in his house for as long as he needed, but now his mind whirls with possibility. She mentioned the enormous dowry she comes with— what a shame it would be to let such a large fortune rot away somewhere, or end up in the hands of her brother (he has never met the boy, but dislikes him immensely anyways.) Accidents happen all the time. Perhaps he can take the fortune in its entirety. That would certainly add insult to injury, and the idea of the final living Baudelaire having no one in the world but him might be too good to pass up. And having her as a wife could be fun too, like a delicate little trinket to parade around at parties and taunt all the stupid volunteers who had ever wronged him.

No matter what he chooses, it will be with Violet Baudelaire’s full and enthusiastic consent, for after tonight he is sure he has her twisted around his finger. 

He can’t believe how easy it’s been, that she’d come to him herself, that that stupid organization been so lax they’d _let_ her. 

He reaches out and assures himself she's still beside him, gently wrapping his hand around her throat, enjoying how warm she is even now. That is how they stay; her fast asleep and him cradling her slow pulse beneath his palm. She is too tired to dream and he fantasizes about his future stretching endlessly out before him. Usually it is frightening to know that he will live on eternally and that through it he will always be alone.

 _But perhaps,_ he thinks, recalling once more the rapturous look on Violet’s face as her lips met her own against the glass and listening her heart beat beside him. _Perhaps I don’t have to be._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this filth! Comments make my day. Happy Halloween! <3  
> Edit: I know this says I posted it on November 1st, but it’s definitely October 31st right now.


End file.
